


There’s Heat Beneath John’s Winter, Let Him In

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [3]
Category: Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos), Rio - Duran Duran (Album)
Genre: A/B/O verse, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Antigua, Bath Sex, Beach House, Beaches, Boats and Ships, Break Up Talk, Candles, Developing Relationship, Fireflies, Fires, First Time, Idiots in Love, Islands, LGBTQ Themes, Loneliness, Lonely Nightmares, M/M, Making Up, Mating Bond, Men Crying, Moonlight, Neon - Freeform, Rio - Music Video, Sing Blue Silver, Singing, Sunrises, Sunsets, They’re meant to be okay, Touch-Starved, Walks On The Beach, Yacht, men kissing, serenades, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: A face splitting smile swept the bassist’s face, chuckling slightly, as the realisation hit him: finally, it was happening. After two years of denial, of rumours swirling and hearts breaking... finally, this was it. Their moment, in tune, together.They’ve both waited through their ice age, it’s time to let Simonin.In every sense of the word.Setting sail in Antigua, April 1982.
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 25
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

John had watched his lover part; he couldn’t feel himself smiling.

Casting a bleary glance out to sea, he trained his shielded eyes to study over the scene before him. Basking in the low amber light, the sun waving goodbye, the sea was still glimmering like crystals, sand gleaming in a golden hue. The light waves lapped at the shore, almost tranquil, lapping lightly at his ankles. Falling to the sand, he hastily wiped the water from his face, desperately ignoring the trembling bottom lip and flushed cheeks. He blinked once, twice, with each blink the scene grew more watery, more distorted, and further from the utopia he knew he was disrupting.

The familiar hitch in breath, prick of his bony shoulders, saw a single hot tear fall. Trail languidly, as if to mock him, to play out the moment, telling him that he wasn’t even man enough to hold it in. To not cry. To not wish for pain and sorrow, when faced with one of the most beautiful islands in the world. Antigua was meant to be their safe haven, a chance for the band to relax, to build deeper bonds and friendships, to find themselves.

John couldn’t take it.

He was more than ready to return home; he missed his mother like mad. He was sick and tired of the same fight swirling, asking himself who was to blame. And now they were being forced to stay out here to shoot, this was becoming a working holiday. A camera crew were coming, models were coming. A yacht, of all bloody things, they wanted to film them parading about on a _yacht_ in fancy suits. Like they could even afford themselves a boat to begin with.

He was so distraught by the argument that this time he had simply backed away, stumbled out of the beach cabin, and plodded on through the burning sand, sun dripping down, bedding heavy behind that of the shimmering shore. Cigarette in hand, fag ash coating his fingertips; he inhaled a shaky breath before letting it go and coughing. He watched the idle whiff of smoke trail off, never quite lost in the tangerine sky as it inked its way into the blackened night.

Illuminated by the finest of stars, now singing blue silver over him, John was doused in the crystal moonlight. Curled up in a pathetic little ball, a bitter string of tears stinging his eyes, he couldn’t help but fall victim to the night: own flames dying with that of the lit tiki torches. His body was a mere speck, a flicker of black paint on a canvas of pure white, disrupting the painting. Or a grain on a worn in photograph, that was no longer worth preserving in its album.

There were no other souls here, no man to meet him. No one _wanted_ to see him, he shouldn’t have wandered out so far.

Forcing his head up, he hastily swept away another cruel tear, wondering why those white glass splinters were lying deep in his mind. The front of his peach suit was riddled with shadowy lines, his chest was bare and that showed the scars. The heartache, the pain, snaking it’s way across his pasty canvas. John shivered bodily, goosebumps flush on his skin. He lay there, whiter than the whitest of sheets. Almost paranormal, he became an easy sight to miss.

He had been out there for hours, clinging to the faint din of the ocean as it crept up on the waterline, still trying to glisten for him, to put on a show. To offer a warmth somehow, with its silver and cobalt glow. He was surrounded by fireflies and fairy lights, a solemn golden light to guide his way back up the shore. Back to the wooden cabins, one for each band member. Each with a rich golden flame ignited by their door, to guide them home.

With a heavy sigh, John decided that enough was enough. Sleeping away his troubles was perhaps all he could do, submerged deep into the loneliest of lonely nightmares. This darkened night was full of empty promises, of false hope of rekindling that fire. That spark. On some level he knew that he couldn’t delude himself much further.

Staggering his gait, he rose to standing and turned away from the glimmer of the full moon. Now backlit by the white beam, framed by the silver twinkle in the sand, he began his ascent.

Trudging through the suddenly thick bank, he stumbled before falling forward, not quite able to find the wind that he needed. Hands now planted in the sand to steady himself, he let out a small yet rueful chuckle. John pressed on, crystals crunching under his feet and maroon fringe dropping into his eyes. He peeled away his bandana, watching as it picked up the light breeze and began to sway on its own. That bought a joy almost, a diversion perhaps. That and the fireflies which appeared to be surrounding him, teeny specks of white gold flashing up before his tired eyes.

He forced a smile to cross his face, he wasn’t crying anymore. Sometimes he _was caught in a landslide,_ sure, but something was telling him, nudging him, that this could _not_ be their last chance on this stairway. If this was a scene out of ‘Voltaire’ - it was cruel.

But now John was faced with the fire biting at the bitter air before this cabin. Not his own. His own was a further three across, with Taylors sleeping soundly between them.

“Ain’t no game, when you’re playin’ with fire huh?” He murmured, inhaling another shaky breath.

John debated whether to knock. Nothing was rushing through him accept an anger, a loss, and hurt. Nothing was rushing through him to apologise; to accept. And yet, it really could be the atmosphere sinking in, he didn’t know what he was thinking other than—

“To keep this… _heaven_ alive.”

The bassist rose an ever so shaky fist, tapping the wooden knocker ever so lightly. His body was tingling, the little pellets of seawater having clung to his skin, but he felt anything but cold. Felt anything but _falling out forever,_ knowing neither man would want that.

John knocked a final time, before bringing his arms up to cross his chest. His left wristband was pressing lightly against his right pec, he couldn’t help but feel the shiver. The tingle, as he brushed that erect mound slightly.

“Don’t say a prayer for me— _gah!_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to a whole hell of a lot of Roxy Music whilst writing this, as you’ll see.

He almost fell through the door as it swept open, he wondered momentarily if the buttery yellow light of the bedside tiki lamp had even been on. Whether those flames were alight on the walls to bring the cabin its warmth, or whether John’s own heat had forced its way through this man’s winter, instead of in reverse.

_There’s still heat beneath that winter,_ John knows it.

“I… y’know I—”

A set of bloodshot, widened, and irritated baby blues landed on him. They were trying ever so hard to glisten, glisten like that of the nude and tan chest before him. Glisten like the golden tiger chain resting between those defined collarbones, azure charm glimmering when they stepped even closer to John. Catching _his_ light, perhaps, he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m…” _sorry_. He mouthed it, he mimed it. John couldn’t quite bring his words to fruition, his vocal was truly lost to the wind.

They nodded, lips cocking up ever so slightly. Not into a smile, nor in relief. That bottom lip was trembling, an unsure breath had been taken and now they were laying out a hand. A hand John did not hold, but a hand he did follow.

“I’m… y’know, I’m so sorry—”

“— _Save it,_ please, Johnny. Till the morning after.” Their voice was firm, yet there was a vulnerable hitch John wouldn’t dare miss. They were struggling, though he knew they weren’t mad. Disappointed, in themselves or John… the bassist couldn’t be sure. “It’s not your fault. Is it?”

“Umm… I don’t… isn’t it _both_ of our faults? Or neither?” John shrugged, trying to break out into a cheeky grin. He didn’t quite get there but, by the broadening of those icy blues, the messages seemed to be getting through.

“I prefer ‘neither.’” They concluded, voice firm. “We can’t keep fighting over this, Johnny. It’s so bloomin’ stupid.”

“I know, I know but—”

“—No, John. It’s out of our control and we should accept it. _I’m_ sorry.”

His chocolate browns widened in surprised, before his brows furrowed in confusion. He cocked his head, almost lost for words as his mind was swept blank. He really hadn’t been expecting that, there wasn’t a chance in hell he could let one wounded soul take the blame here.

“No, no it’s not your fault! It’s me, right? I overreacted and I… Christ, it’s just…”

“I know, Johnny, I know.” They insisted, the faintest of smiles flashing on those peachy lips.

John’s gaze fell to his bare feet, to the sand he hadn’t meant to tread in. He slouched, stalling for a long moment as he gathered his unclear thoughts.

_Don’t say a prayer for me now, ‘eh?_

“It’s just… you know, it was… blimey, I—” The bassist broke off with a sniff, tossing his head back.

His glasses momentarily slipped from his little nose; he was frozen in time as that hand reached forward to save them. To align them, to correct them, to perfect Jo— _Nigel’s_ guise. He found himself closing his eyes, enhanced lashes fanning over his cut cheeks, as he tried to stifle another tear. He hadn’t even tried to amend his runaway mascara, the eyeliner which had surely smudged. They didn’t seem to mind those imperfections, so neither did John… Nigel.

“You know it’s… _goddamn_ hormones!” He clawed away at the tears, as they again dared to fall and abuse his trust. “I—”

“—It was _your_ band first, John. I understand the frustration.” They spoke, surprising John by their tone. How affirmative, how sure, and insistent they were. “The fans want who they want, I suppose. They see who they want to see.”

Helping John to see, to know, what his heart’s been looking for. He wants to see that love again.

“Johnny, listen to me.” Now that hand on his shoulder was falling away. John didn’t let it, he lurched forward to clasp that hand.

“Oh, I uh, sorry.” John dropped that palm, feeling it burn beneath his own.

A small giggle sounded, drawing the bassist’s shielded and cloudy gaze back onto them. “No need to be sorry, Johnny.” They insisted, reaching for John’s own clammy fingertips.

His pulse immediately settled as his hand was held, cradled, by a much stronger and supportive palm. John nodded, silently asking them to keep going. To keep their fire alight.

“It was your band first, but you needed a singer. A front man to carry you.” They continued, treading gently on this already flaming ground. “I know it bugs you, I know it must hurt though—”

“—They want you.” John insisted, butting in. “They want you. They _adore_ you more, Simon.”

Their interlocked hands were dropped.  
  


A wry smile coated those lips, the singer simply shrugged. For once, it appeared his front man was quite lost for words. Almost.

“You get the love, you know? It’s just that, oh shit.” He was still crying, having almost forgotten those cruel tears were staining both of their souls. “It’s… _hard_ for me, at times.”

“Hard?”

He nodded, curtly. If Simon had blinked, he would’ve missed it.

John’s shielded eyes had again fallen to the wooden panels beneath his feet. He nodded once more, bandana threatening to slip from his hair. “Ye-yeah, its like… Shit, a box of _Quality Street._ They each pick a favourite chocolate and there’s enough to go round, y’know?”

The front man cocked his head, smirking softly at the strangely fitting analogy.

John continued, red in the face, with a cough. “I, I came from nothin.’ Spotty face, ruddy specs… _you_ changed that. Changed me for the better.”

Simon said nothing, John took his cue.

“You made me… _John,_ I mean. You made me believe in myself. You’re everything to us, this band, and without you, Lord, I dunno where we would be. Probably not recording, that’s for sure. Never mind bleedin’ _selling_ records.” The bassist paused, setting another barrier between the two. “It’s… you they want. And I guess, I can’t change it?”

“I’m the favourite _Quality Street,_ am I?” Simon cocked a blonde brow, plush lips doing the same.

John nodded, giggling shyly.

“The green triangle?”

“Simon, I don’t know alright!” He tried to laugh through the tears; it was ever so forced. “Look, we… there’s this, I dunno, _rivalry_ between us? Over fans, groupies. Can I even call it that? A goddamn rivalry?”

There was a small hum, of consideration. “Call it what you want to call it. John, it still blows down the lane.”

His head shot back up, Faster Than Light. He had vowed to never ask about that song, those lyrics that had been sneakily slipped beneath the crack under his hotel room door…

“John? Johnny? You okay babe, you’ve been staring into space…”

Gruelling moments after, he answered. Without words.

“Don’t be ‘Lonely In _Your_ Nightmare’ John, talk to me.”  
  


John lurched his quivering body forward at Simon, enveloping the singer in a tight hug. Atop of his strong shoulder, John came undone, weeping softly in his ear. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he felt those strong hands immediately wrap themselves around his lanky frame, bringing John in closer. Simon’s fingertips found their way threading through his mish-mash of fading maroon into chestnut locks, shushing him.

“It’s just I, I _can’t_ —” He cut himself off with a whimper.

“Shush, shush, what is it Johnny? Can’t deal with it? Our fame?”

“ _Your_ fame.” He sniffled, soaked lips pressing deeply into Simon’s bronze neck.

Simon said nothing, only tangled his fingers in John’s hair deeper. Keeping the bassist close, keeping him from running anywhere before morning.

“I’m just a…” His breath hitched, he stumbled and started again. Shivering inside. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Simon.”

With a small chuckle, Simon picked up exactly where the bassist had left off. His vocal was much stronger, even by his own jitters he couldn’t hide his own tears from John. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, Johnny.”

At that, Simon’s hand stalled in his hair. John was first to peel himself away, chest to chest no more. “I’m just a… y’know, a _Jealous Guy_.”

“Lennon or Ferry?”

“Both.”

John wormed his way back into Simon’s hold. They remained close, touched starved, John clutching ever so tight. He didn’t let go, Simon didn’t let him go, till his cries began to dull. Dull into choked off sobs, shaky pants. Only when John’s eyes were gleaming ‘Like An Angel’ again, did Simon even think about retreating. The bassist laid out a quivering hand, panting heavily. It showed in the flush of his chest, heart beating rapid through his bony body. The singer nodded, taking in the ruined man before him. In pride, not pity.

Coming to rest an arm around John’s bony shoulders, Simon pressed a soft chaste kiss to the bassist’s temple. He blushed, turning to jelly under the sweet touch. “Do you want to talk about it now?” John shook his head, still not looking at him. “Okay then, tomorrow we will.”  
  


“We have a _video_ to shoot tomorrow, you know?!”

“Oh, right!” Simon slapped his own wrist, electing a small giggle from John. “Come to bed, you need some rest.” Simon muttered, pressing another small kiss to his cheek.

“Wait, _what?!_ ” He stiffened, eyes clouding over in fear for a bleak moment. “I… Simon, I told you, you know I’m not… erm, yeah, I’m not ready too…”

“No, you idiot Taylor! I meant sleeping _beside_ you, not inside you.” Simon giggled as John flailed about in his grip.

“… Oh.”

“Yeah, I told you that I would wait until you’re ready. I don’t mind waiting another night.” Simon started, voice firm. John had heard those exact words numerous times, they were routine. To mask Simon’s hurt, perhaps. To give Simon hope that someday, someday _soon_ , John could welcome him in.

They hadn’t lain together; he was still petrified of what could happen. Opening up, giving himself in such a way… Disappointing Simon. John couldn’t describe how upset it made him, how distraught stopping and walking away was right before things got a little too heated and he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Though now he finally had the money, he had recently began taking tablets for his heats. Things were beginning to settle; his hormones were still out of whack. Things were beginning to settle, he was growing ever more trustworthy of Simon, knowing the singer could take him. Take him, have him seeing stars.

“Don’t be ‘Lonely In _Your_ Nightmare,’ Johnny.” The singer spoke softly, a tinge of guilt evident in his tone. “You can go if you want too, you know I would never stop you from leaving.”

John had heard those exact words countless times, though he found his knees buckling whenever Simon added in a lyric or two. He would always feel his heart swell, his head clear. When he could hold back his rain.

“It’s okay, John. I’ll see you at the docks first thing.”

He pivoted, peach jacket swishing as he did so. John took the three long strides towards the door, breathing heavily. Extending a shaky hand, he reached for the wooden doorknob, before deciding against it. John shook the fallen fringe from his face, before twirling back around to face Simon. Simon who, was gazing at him inquisitively. Silently asking what was wrong.

“No, I—” John inhaled a shaky breath, feeling his heart pounding and ears ringing. “I _want_ to stay.”

Simon’s gaze widened; his blues were twinkling like never before. “You do?”

John answered, voice growing stronger with every word. “Yes, yes I do. Please, let me stay tonight. Can I? Just, Simon, _hold_ me.”

He was visibly trembling, in a state of pure shock. Though that didn’t dull the wind in his sails as Simon dashed over to hug him, to help him, to kiss him softly on the cheek. With every tender touch and careful caress, John’s feelings were growing stronger. He was growing surer of himself, of his want, of his _love_.

“Of course, you can stay. I want _my_ Johnny here.”

Telling Simon; he simply wanted to be held, be kissed, and no more, for the first time; Simon took him to bed with ease. A cheeky little good natured pillow fight then to sleep, with ease.


	3. Chapter 3

Clutching lightly to the wooden railing, he absorbed the fresh morning air as the sunlight beat down joyfully around him. As the light wind flowed through his hair, tickling his nude chest. He shivered slightly, folding his arms.

The scene was exquisite from the back of the beach cabin. Endless lines of palms trees in all shades of green, jade, lime, olive; swaying softly. Waving good morning, languidly waltzing along the soft breeze. This paved way for the jungle; rich greens leading to something more spectacular. A small pond, a muddy walkway, leading to life unlike any he had ever known living at peace on this utopian island.

John ran a hand through his shaggy hair, knocking his Japanese printed bandana. He fastened it, tying it extra tight, body being painted with the silken honeydew glow. The rising sun was magnificent, a photograph worth its capture.

He didn’t take his shielded eyes from the scene, almost missing the warmth of another body. Of another soul. Almost.

Feeling his heart flutter and stomach do a somersault, John’s lithe body was enrapt in two strong arms, two large hands fanning about his skinny middle. A head came to rest atop of his defined shoulder blade, John closed his eyes with a small groan.

“ _I close my eyes, and dance till daw-warn!_ But I missed the dawn, so, I’ll dance till sunset.”

Little giggles erupted at his back; John felt those vibrations pulse through him. Strong, insistent, _consistent_. Like a heartbeat, bleeding life into him, never demanding it back. That song really meant something, all those years ago on that dingy _Rum Runner_ dance floor…

John was twirled bodily, landing back in those same muscular hands. Soft palms, blunt nails. John had every line of both hands memorised. Every groove, every cut. Every abrasion ingrained to memory. Sending a hand down; John’s right searched for their left. Unsure, they let him raise both hands, fingertips touching, before the bassist turned back to admire the scene. The sun was glistening amongst its own golden bed in the sky, still quite low. Reaching forward, hands interlocking, John motioned upwards.

Following the bassist’s movements, together they cupped the ever brightening sun. As if they could almost touch her, have their problems and fears melted away by her soft rays. Never burned, never scorned.

They dropped their left hand first to John’s hip, with a soft giggle. He shuddered slightly at that; those fingertips were pressing lightly against him; not quite leaving their mark.  
  


Leaning forward, crowding the bassist, they spoke ever so smoothly. Keeping him close, keeping him sure of himself. “What’re ya doing out here, Johnny? It’s not even five AM?”

John’s mega-watt smile was quick to grace his sun kissed face. “Couldn’t sleep, so I came out here. The sun’s real beautiful, don’t’cha think, luv?”

He was met by another soft chuckle, tickling his left ear. “Of course. _When the sun drips down, bedded heavy behind.”_ The singer began, vocal ever so soft and frail. Tinged with a slight croak of the first words of the day, tinged with grace and imperfect beauty.

Bringing his hand down to rest atop of Simon’s, John splayed his unusually not calloused fingertips out. Pressing himself softly into Simon’s heat, the bassist was more than ready for the heat to warm him. To coarse through his veins, to melt through his winter.

Both men had waited through their ice age, it’s time John let his front man _in_.

“Simon I—” _Take me to bed._ All the words fled from his head; his tongue stalled. Turning to face the front man, he blinked rapid and found himself looking down. Singing blue silver, no more.

“What is it, Johnny? Whats runnin’ through that little perverse head of yours?”

He tossed his head back up, fringe falling into his eyes. Simon was ever so close, staring intently, as though he was trying to commit every scar, every spot, on his face to memory. As if Simon hadn’t done so himself, before.

“I uh… I could use a bath.” He spluttered, surprising himself by his vulnerable tone. And favouring a soak over a shower, he only liked taking baths if he could watch TV.

Simon stepped back with a chuckle. “Damn right you do. You really did tread in a shit load of sand last night! When I woke up and saw you weren’t there, I almost had enough grains to build a Johnny castle.”

“A _castle?!_ ” The bassist couldn’t hide the cute blush that swept his cheeks, he was hiding the blush in his face behind his hand no more.

“Yeah! You plonker. It would’ve sucked without a moat, though.”

“ _Charmin’!_ ” Together their laughter synched up, John’s light and airy merging perfectly with Simon’s lower and more heartfelt tone.

“But seriously Johnny, you’re gonna want to wash your hair before filming today.”

“Holy crap… that’s _today?_ What time is it?! When do we have to go?!”

“Relax!” Simon waved him off, eyes twinkling. “It’s not even touched five AM; we don’t have to be at the docks till nine. She sets sail at eleven.”

“… She?”

“Oh right.” Simon rolled his eyes. “Boat lingo, they’re all women.”

“Ah, I won’t even ask.”  
  


Stepping in beside John again, a shy right hand brushing an even more shy left; the front man made it very clear that it was time for the bassist to make the next move. He did, tangling their digits together.

John stepped in closer, so their noses could brush. He leant in further, so their lips could brush. John pushed himself into Simon’s supportive frame, wrapping his hands around the front man’s waist, another threading its way through his shaggy golden hair. He pressed his lips ever so slowly into Simon’s, with a touch so tender it was set to melt John’s icy core.

There’s heat beneath his winter, if only he could let Simon in.

Pulling away with a giggle, the bassist was quick to press their foreheads back together. Feeling that warmth, that ticklish spark, his pretty lips dropped open as the singer again took his lips into his hold. This kiss was growing stronger, more breathtaking with every moment. Every caress, every insistent touch.

**_Who’s crawling now,_ **

****

“I want… I need a _bath_.”

**_In the tall grass, beside my tent?_ **

Chuckling, Simon turned to him with a beady eye. “Oh, do you now?”

“I’ve got to get this sand offa me.”

“Yeah, that you do.”

“Will you… erm, will you care too…”

“ _Join_ you?”

**_Listen._ **

That gave John pause. Looking down, he bit into his lip as he nodded. “ _Please_.”

Simon said no more, extending a hand for John to hold. He did, winter beginning to thaw under this new heat.

There’s heat beneath his winter, he’s letting Simon in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very important turning point for this series, especially if you come to this in chronological order.
> 
> I also recommend hearing Bryan Ferry’s _Slave To Love _whilst reading this. I know that song didn’t actually exist in 1982, and I’m a real stickler for music of the exact zeitgeist however - it really sets the tone for this. It’s precious, I’m very happy to be sharing this. Finally.__

Slipping into the soak, the water roared softly, idle waves crashing around his ankles, his legs and stomach. Slipping into the soak, his body was submerged in bubbles, a light white froth pelting his soft skin. Slipping into the soak saw him met by another soul, crouching down behind him, encompassing him, swishing the light waves around them both.

The bath was littered with foam and petals, exotic flowers adding a vibrancy to the cool blue that submerged both bodies. Candles too, bringing a warmth, a passion, to the scene. A soft glow, sunlight beaming down over them through the open window. A slight breeze, their words were chased by the light wind, flowing in past the curtains. Wooden tones of pecan and mocha bled into lighter ginger and marigold; the cabin was alight with golds. With silvers, singing the blues.

Bringing a jug high, the water rained down over John, who tipped his head back slowly, pretty opal eyes falling shut. Soft fingertips were flowing through his soggy locks, massaging his head. Running shampoo through those mousy brown ends, heavy with aqua, before trailing across his slick shoulder blades.

Lathering the conditioner saw John moaning softly, a slight groan and a twitch. His body was alive and tingling, he was clutching to the sides of their tub tight. He rolled his neck, hissing as the water showered all over him; the soapy products running down his chest. Those hands were so soft, so caring, that he was falling into the embrace. Climbing higher, falling victim to those tender touches. Leaning into them, head grounding into that open palm.

A final rain shower pelted his slick body, he too ran his hands through his hair as he deemed himself clean. With a sudden wind in his sails, a rush of intense feeling he couldn’t deny, the bassist crept up and fumbled to turn around. He fell, well, chest first into a gleaming tiger chain; with a sapphire eye so beady that John was drawn to it in wonder. In knowing, contentment, sure of himself.

Placing both hands on that slick chest helped the bassist rise, legs straddling another lengthy tan pair. He leant down, water droplets falling from his fringe right to his lips. His lips, which connected into another pair so perfectly it was as though they were made for one another. A jigsaw piece slotting in correctly, their hold wouldn’t falter.

Pulling away ever so slowly, John pressed himself forward; foreheads touching and chests flush. He didn’t let his grip go from those pecs, softly massaging them with cheek.

Another kiss, more fire.

“What do you want, John?” That voice was husky, having dropped to a dangerously seductive degree.

John gulped audibly, training his eyes to land on those glassy blues. They were wide, daring to sparkle. Wanting to glimmer, they would glimmer. John couldn’t dull that shine, that lust, why would he even try?

“What do you want, Nigel?”

“I want,” he paused to pepper soft kisses over those cheeks, over those lips. “I want _you_.”

Leaning in, John teased his few words over those lips. Falling deeper, more addicted to the drug that pooled on them. The ecstasy bought by those lips, that tongue, those wandering hands and supportive frame.

“I want you to…” His voice, ever so small and shy, trailed off. Knowing he was red in the face, chest flushing with it, he didn’t care. John kept talking, using his body to say what he couldn’t.

Grinding his hips downward, he elicited a harsh groan from the man before him. Running his hands over those shoulders, John forced himself down again, being rewarded with a throaty and delicious groan.

“I want you; _please_ Simon.” He whispered, prayed, trembling voice brushing the singer’s ear. “Take me, right _here_.”

John pulled away and hung his head in shame, almost petrified of Simon’s reaction. His words, his emotions. Whether he would simply pull away, leave him right there to drown in an ocean of his own tortured and thrashed feelings.

His own hungry wolf eyes, ones that he could hide no longer, cast themselves downwards. He couldn’t hide what was rising.

“I’m sorry.” John posed, rising from Simon momentarily.

The singer caught him, a strong grip on his wrist reeling John back in. “Wait here.”

“Wait, what?! Charlie I—” His voice grew in fear, being ushered away by the singer who rose to his feet. Clambered out of the tub. “Simon?!” John demanded, pink in the face and tears brimming in his eyes.

Turning back to the bassist, seemingly drowning in his own puddle of rife emotion, the singer could only smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Those moments alone were the longest in John’s life.

The bassist fell back into the bathtub, gaze catching sight of a flickering candle. How the blaze was no longer fighting to stay alight. Much like he, and Simon, their spark couldn’t be extinguished: by anyone. Not even John himself.

He was in a trance, encapsulated by that glimmering heat. That glimmer of hope.

Those moments alone were the longest in John’s life.

Reappearing with a cheeky smirk, John’s heart was in his throat when he realised what Simon was holding. How could he have forgotten? Those heat tablets were here to help him, they couldn’t protect him from his own foolish mistakes.

Simon was here to take care of him, to please him. He only hoped they could get through this without spraining something.

Clambering back into the grand bathtub, Simon sat down and beckoned John over to him. John paddled over, chuckling slightly as the realisation hit him: finally, it was happening. Finally, after years of basking in his own fear, it was happening. Finally, after years of denial, or rumours swirling and hearts to break. This was it.

_No one could love you more._

John scurried into Simon’s open arms, straddling him. The bassist inhaled a shaky breath, knowing there was a new life pumping within him; he needed to do this. He needed to let go. He couldn’t deny Simon any longer, they were driving themselves into madness by waiting.

“ _I know you’ve got it in your head_ Johnny, _I’ve seen that look before_.”

He couldn’t thank Simon enough, for waiting. For keeping his promise.

“ _You’ve built your refuge, turns you captive all the same_.” Simon breathed, breath tickling the column of John’s throat.

John’s breath hitched, his body trembled, and he fell forward, panting harshly into Simon’s neck.

“Ah, fuck! It _hurts,_ it really frickin’—”

**_Because you’re so Lonely In Your Nightmare, let me in._ **

“Simon, ah!”

“I know Johnny, I know it hurts… Just keep breathing, I’m right here.”

He whined in agreement, tensing momentarily around Simon’s fingertips.

“Just breathe, breathe. It’ll get easier.”

“O-okay.” He stammered, breath trying to stable. “It’s so fuckin’ _painful_ … Christ!”

“Talk to me, keep talking to me.”

**_And it’s cold out on your stone range, let me in._ **

Slipping a second digit inside made John jolt, this was going to be anything but easy. He gripped harder to Simon’s neck, to the wall behind him.

“Agh; Charlie!”

His words rolled so effortlessly off his tongue, John found himself pressing down and back onto those digits. Worming their way inside ever so tenderly.

“That’s it, just _breathe_ baby.”

John exhaled shakily, finally he was beginning to feel good.

**_And there’s barren in your garden, let me in._ **

****

Turning back down to face Simon, he beckoned the singer up to meet him. To meet his silken lips, to press hotly against his mouth. Simon did just that, muttering sweet nothings as John pulled away in pain, whining out, clutching tighter to Simon’s neck again. The singer slipped in another digit, massaging his insides.  
  


Moments passed as shaky breaths dropped, moans fell, and hips collided. Without knowing, or truly knowing, Simon was inside him.

“Fuckin’ _hell,_ Simon I—”

“—Don’t you play with toys?”

John grunted in pain or frustration; he didn’t know which. “You’re much… much _bigger_ than those toys!”

“Bigger, huh?” John could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Yeah, you… thank stars you’re circum... circum- _cised_ you, you Oxford _bastard_.”

Simon’s laughter was wonderful and infuriating. John shut the hell up, having long since ruined their moment; hips clamping down on Simon. All of Simon.

**_There’s heat beneath your winter, let me in._ **

The bassist let him cup his hips, pressing his fingertips into those cut grooves to help him up. To raise him, to guide himself in, to comfort John. Mumbling sweetly his lyrics from the ever so beautiful _Lonely In Your Nightmare,_ Simon ensured John wouldn’t be alone anymore. In need of touch, in need of saving.

Waiting through his _ice age_ was worth it. The moment was euphoric, the white behind his eyes was blinding. There’s winter thawed by Simon’s heat, flowing through his heart, coursing through his veins.

He’s let Simon in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I’ve been waiting since January 12th to share this. This chapter was so unnecessary yet totally necessary at the same time!

“Hey now, woo, look at _that!_ ”

“Holy Mother—”

Tipping his head back, grey fedora falling, John swallowed thickly before his jaw dropped wide.

Simon was stood right beside him, pointing forward and practically bouncing. The sea was calling to him, he was being lured in by Poseidon’s tempting staff. John on the other hand was not so at ease.

“Has Nicky shown up yet? Last I heard he was throwing up in a bush over all this.” Simon chuckled into John’s ear, bringing him in close with a hand around his neck. “Looks like you could be joinin’ him.”

John scoffed, his stomach was churning like mad, but Simon didn’t need to know. He was still reeling after this morning’s turn of events…

“Do you really think this is gonna work? They’ve thrown this shoot together just… well, today! It’s an accident waiting to happen!

“A _lawsuit_ waiting to happen. There’s jellyfish out there, too!” Simon giggled; John was growing paler by the second. And he was already very pale. “Pink phones, pink drinks, pink women tossing beach balls… I don’t know. It’s all very bright and bubbly, very current. I think it’ll work. What I do know is that your suit looks damn _fine_ with my hat, by the way.”

“Your hat?”

Simon raised a cheeky brow. “You stole it after filming ‘Hungry,’ remember?”

“That’s because you dyed your hair and it looked shite, you needed it covered up! And I look far _better_ in it than you ever did, you know?” A little shit eating grin wormed its way across the bassist’s face.

Simon nodded; he had really been rocking the fedora hat look.

“Yeah yeah, Nigel likes his headgear now, yeah.”

“Hey, don’t ‘Nigel’ me!” John barked, ever so giggly. “The suit, its not too much? I mean, we are gonna be gettin’ _soaked_ up there and we’ll all just be a big wet blob of colour, you know… aren’t we Simon? _Simon?!_ ”  
  


And without another word, Simon was a creamy blur having dashed off down the docks, laughing. Proving John’s colour point. He was running straight for their mega yacht, her blinding sails, and masts, bobbing proudly atop the Antigua coast. Seemingly, the front man was unable to keep away from the water no more.

“‘Eh, luv?!” He called; voice truly lost to the wind. “Alright then, screw you!”

_Can’t stop himself! It’s a New Religion, oh!_

The film crew were beginning to gather, a sea of guffaws and gasps filling the air.

“Climb on John, stop looking so scared, you wuss!” He heard Simon call though he couldn’t see him.

“Simon, where did… _oh_.”

_Hey now, woo, look at that indeed!_

Their yacht ‘Eilean’ was truly magnificent, and hopefully would shine on camera. This has never been done before. A front man never risked it for a video shoot… until Simon Le Stuntman now.

“Blimey… how did you?!” John trailed off, pointing upwards. The masts were colourfully decorated with his front man. “And so quick?!”

“He’s got a hard on for the water!” He heard Andy’s gravely voice, he didn’t see him.

Simon’s laughter rang down over the gathering film crew, models painted in all colours of the rainbow, pink phones, and red bouncing balls alike. “It’s where I _belong,_ you sod! With this, all of this!” He reached an arm out, gesturing wildly, the Antigua docks coming to life under his very hand.

With a scoff to himself, John uttered. “You’ve got that right, luv.”  
  


Clambering aboard Eilean was hard, he had no sea legs. By the looks of it neither did Andy, and Nick was still white in the face from fear. They hadn’t even set sail yet! Though out of the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help but smile, John noticed his rhythm section strolling casually down the deck, Roger was headed right for the wheel.

The drummer appeared ever so tranquil; it was as though he too was at home on the water. Almost.

“Simon, get your fat arse down so we can get movin’ already!” Andy called, dressed in a sharp black satin number. One John was sure to ruin somehow later, he had lost a drinking game to the guitarist the other night and together he and Simon had devised a plan of revenge…

“Yeah Simon, let’s get this bloody shoot over with.” Nick boomed, shaking, more than ready to toss up over the side.

“Just you wait till they cast you adrift, trying to play the sax!” Simon bellowed back to the gloomy keyboardist, setting John off with his laughter.

“You _what?!_ ” Nick screeched, clutching hard to the side.

Simon shimmied his way down the mast, headed straight for the scarlet star that was his Johnny, staring aimlessly out to sea.

“Ten quid says he falls in.” Andy sniggered John’s way.

The bassist leant down to his pint sized guitarist, telling him to make it fifty. Andy chuckled, retreating, so the front man could have the bassist’s spotlight.

“I want in on that bet, babe!” Planting a quick kiss to John’s cheek, Simon dashed away laughing even harder than before. With the boat’s neck, a net, and his own death-defying and ridiculous _fun_ insight.

He left John there stunned, panting in both adrenaline and fear; almost ready to follow him. Boats really weren’t his thing. But who knows, with the wind tousling his hair, his scarlet _Anthony Price_ number shining bright, this video could truly be something special, if Russell could bring it all together without a hitch. With ‘Rio’ herself, shining in her body paint.

“John, Johnny, get yourself over here!” He was beckoned over, to click, to linger, to stand with swag behind Simon. Who was diving headfirst into making this video one to remember.

With a shaky exhale, momentarily negotiating how to get across the deck without tripping, “this better be worth it, luv!” he grunted, practically slamming straight into the centre pole. “Goddamnit!”

“Stop whining back there!” Simon screamed from upfront, wind rushing through his hair, blazer wafting. “It’s makes you feel alive, alive, _aliiiiiive!_ ”

“Oh, shut up!” Nick leered.  
  


“Master Bates is more than ready to toss himself overboard, ‘eh?” Andy sniggered, eliciting a small cackle from John. And a delightful death glare from the keyboardist.

Murmuring into his hand, being pelted by salty sea water, John scoffed. “We better shag later, he _owes_ me for this.”

“You what, John?” Roger posed, John straightening up comically.

He blinked once. Twice.

“Nothin’ Rog, it’s _nothing!_ ”

He found himself giggling, blushing, sending a cheeky smile to the camera by his feet. Casting a glance out to sea, training his eyes on Simon at front, John hung on for dear life and was determined to keep that smile as he rolled up his ruby blazer sleeves. _It’ll be worth it, this video shoot, surely!_ His front man means so much to John, being beside the ocean means the world to him so it means something to John now, too. More than a birthday, or a pretty view.

He may not quite be Simon’s dream girl in a bikini and body paint, but still: he’s dancing on his front man’s sand.

And besides, the bassist knows that they’re special riding those waves. The _fab five_ looking like: they’re the _best._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, January 28th, marks a year since I finishing posting my We Danced story; the first instalment to what would become my Hold Tight saga.
> 
> So to celebrate that fact, and you know who quite literally turning one today, it felt right uploading this final chapter, to round out what has been an immense year of writing for me; amongst everything else.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this Rio inspired story, which I believe is the last in this series. I’m still unclear how I want the 90s to go for my Johnny and Simon, their relationship and lack thereof; to John’s rehab and sobriety. So it’s goodbye, for now, Hold Tight. ♥️


End file.
